True friendship is like sound health; the value of it is seldom known
until it be lost.
Charles Caleb Colton
Prologue
It should have been resolved. They should have been fine.
After the disaster of the dissertation release, Blair Sandburg took up the badge. Guide and Sentinel served side by side, with the not-quite-official blessings of the Cascade Police Department. Setting aside his own reservations, Blair threw himself heart and soul into their partnership.
Jim Ellison, however, carried an additional burden. The seeds sown by a lifetime of disappointment, tragedy, and betrayal eventually bore a bitter harvest. He did try, but at the most critical moment, driven by tension and fatigue as well as unjustified - but all too real - doubt, Jim lashed out. His attack was vicious and, with unerring accuracy, he wounded both himself and his partner beyond forgiveness. Apparently, beyond any hope of reconciliation.
Within a shockingly short period of time, the tight family of Major Crime unraveled. Blair left Cascade, Jim did not. Neither man found any true measure of recovery. Three years later, the stage was set.
****
The captain flicked through the pages of the report, not looking at the two officers standing before his desk. The details revealed a good bust by any measure. They'd even nabbed a few of the top dogs instead of the usual faceless, and quickly replaced, underlings. To wrap up a human trafficking ring meant good press, a nice call from the chief of police, maybe even the mayor. No one really had to know how close they'd come to disaster. All he had to do was mouth a few word of praise, give both guys a little time off. Just smooth things over and let time dampen the emotions.
Again.
By habit, his left hand went to the paperweight. His fingers traced the letters, as he often did when he needed inspiration for a tough decision. It had been a gift from his mother, on the day he'd made captain, barely a week before her frail body slipped away, ravaged by cancer. The top bore his name and title, "Captain Scott Reston," a demonstration of his mother's pride. On the circular edge, where only he could see, was a testament to her love. "Hot heads and cold hearts never solved anything."
He forced himself to look up. On his left, Drake Harrison stared hard across the desk, waiting for his captain to make - to his mind - a long overdue move. Harrison was a good guy, a bit unimaginative, but always fair and thoughtful; the kind of guy who made an average department a better one, a team player who worked his ass off, loved his family, cared about his job and his colleagues. The captain could hardly ignore Harrison's body language, the angry set to the shoulders, the fists clenched so hard the knuckles were white. A few pointed questions would bring all that rage boiling out, along with a lot of information Reston didn't want to know - at least in the official sense.
To his right, well, that was another story. His best detective seemed oblivious to the other occupants of the room. Tall and lean, he stood at parade rest, gaze directed toward a far-off place where the dark side welcomes its own. In some ways, the man was Harrison's polar opposite - brilliant and relentless, but uncommunicative and harsh with his fellow officers. An impressive face framed sky-blue eyes, rimmed in red. He never drank on duty, but had to be hitting the bottle hard when he wasn't. He was the problem child of all problem children. For the millionth time, Reston wondered why Jim Ellison's superior talent had to be wrapped in such a difficult package.
Buying a bit more time, he signed the report. During the length of time it took to scrawl his signature, his decision crystallized. Thanks, Mom.
"Drake, I saw your boy scored sixteen last night. Must have been quite a game."
Harrison's anger bled off into a smile. "You got it, Cap. He had a good game. Hit a couple of threes in OT. We're real proud of him."
"And with the overtime on this case, you've been missing a lot of those games. I know it's his senior season." Reston tapped a pen on his desk blotter. "Playoffs start next week. I want you to take the time off, starting tomorrow, and go watch every minute."
Shock and joy flooded Harrison's face, followed by doubt. "Captain, I don't have that much vacation time."
"You do now. You've earned it. I'll take care of it."
Reston sensed Harrison waver, torn between pushing his beef with Ellison and time with his family. Capitulation came quickly. "Thank you, sir. I don't know what to say."
"Chalk it up to a job well done. Get out of here, and keep us updated. I expect calls from the Tacoma Dome after every game." Both men started for the door. "Ellison, stay. I need a word."
Ellison's shoulders stiffened ever so slightly, but neither man spoke until the office door closed. "Sit down, Detective."
"Not necessary, sir."
Reston's own exasperation got the better of him. "Not your call, Detective. Now sit." Ellison folded his tall frame into a chair. Which issue should he broach first? The recent drinking, or Ellison's utterly reckless behavior? Reston took his time, trying to calm himself. He needed to make progress with this man, for the sake of his unit. Ellison was tearing himself, and everyone around him, to shreds. "Your report was a little light on detail. Why don't you fill in the gaps for me?"
"With all due respect, why don't you just spit out what you have to say and save us both the time. Sir."
The last inflection, full of insolence and disdain, demanded a response, even if Ellison was just going to ignore it. "You went in without backup, and nearly got your partner's head blown off when he had to come in behind you!" he snapped. "Harrison has the right to be pissed off."
"I didn't ask for his help. Sir."
Any intention of playing this with calm and control vanished. Reston was on his feet in a flash. His voice took on a life of its own, shouting, virtually ranting at the man in front of him. "Of course not! You don't ask, because you don't acknowledge anything or anyone beyond yourself. But Drake Harrison doesn't have to be asked. He's a good cop. He'll back his partner, asked or not. He'll do it even when the so-called partner is an ungrateful, irresponsible son of a bitch. You risk your own damn worthless life without getting anyone else killed, mister!"
Ellison finally swung his gaze to look him in the eye. "Yes, sir. I'll do that. Thank you, sir."
Reston stopped, ashamed of the words that had just flown out of his mouth. His tirade might be true, but it was no way to speak to a decorated officer. Even with wear around the edges, Ellison produced superior work, at least on the crime-solving end of things. The fact that he left his colleagues in shreds was a separate matter. What a crappy tradeoff. How much of his unit's wellbeing could he sacrifice for one man?
"Ellison, you were already on warning. You've been shifted through multiple assignments since the reorganization in Major Crime, and your personnel jacket rivals a phonebook. You treat your fellow officers like shit. Isn't there some part of you that wants to turn things around? You have abilities that are a gift." Reston watched closely, hoping for a flicker of response that he could work with. For a moment, he saw pain flit through those startling eyes, but Ellison's only other reaction was to clench his jaw.
Reston sighed, knowing from past experience that any further attempts were futile. "Leave your piece and shield on my desk, and get out of my sight. Don't report for duty until I contact you personally."
"So I'm suspended."
It was a statement, not a question. No apology, no explanation. God, this guy was cold. "I didn't say that. Based on your performance this afternoon, I have every reason to think you're on the razor's edge, maybe even suicidal. You're not going to twist my own words, however intemperate, into some sort of perverted permission to go out in a blaze of glory. I should send you straight to the departmental psych. Hell, I should tie you to a chair until he gets here." Reston leaned forward on the desk, wishing he'd handled this better. The man was in trouble, not deliberately destructive. Even after all the problems with Ellison, he wanted to believe that. "However this goes down, you're not going to blow your brains out with anything from the Cascade PD on my watch. Like I said, I want your piece and your shield. I want your backup gun, too, and the one in your locker that I'm not supposed to know about." His detective's eyes flickered for a moment and then faded back into whatever private world Ellison inhabited. "You're off the duty roster until further notice. Now get out of here until I send for you." Ellison held his shield for a moment, then dumped it on the desk, followed by his service revolver and the small, snub-nosed number from an ankle holster. He left without a backward glance, and walked through a gauntlet of fellow officers in the outer offices, every one of whom had heard every word.
What a tragedy. Not a one of them was sorry to see him go.
Reston left his desk and closed the door Ellison hadn't bothered to close. God, what a mess, and he'd handled it badly. He picked up the phone and dialed an extension he knew by heart. "Maggie? Captain Reston. I need to speak with Deputy Chief Banks' office, and no, I'm afraid it can't wait."
****
Simon Banks gave the door to number 307 two more sharp smacks with the flat of his hand. Jim Ellison wasn't going to hide behind a closed door. Damn the man. Jim had ignored his calls for long enough. Banks was sure his former detective was there. Jim didn't go out, hadn't gone out since - well, since a long time ago.
A barely-heard shuffle from the other side of the door shredded his patience. "Ellison, open the damn door, or it's coming down!" He leaned back, ready to deliver a solid kick, when the locks started to turn. The door opened a fraction.
The disembodied voice sounded ragged and hoarse. "Go away, Simon. Just - leave."
"Damn you, Jim," Simon said angrily, pushing the door aside. "I've been calling you for days. Pick up your damn phone. This is serious...Jesus. What the hell?"
Jim Ellison, or more correctly, a shadow of the man he had once valued as a friend, swayed in front of him, cringing as he covered his ears with both hands. Simon was shocked at the gaunt frame, clad only in a pair of boxers. When had Jim lost all this weight? Simon watched in horror as Jim tripped and fell, then crawled to the table in front of the sofa. His hands shook violently as he downed the remains of liquid from a glass. The empties scattered around the loft left no doubt as to the contents.
"Reston called me three times in as many weeks. He told me he thought you were drinking. I didn't believe it." Simon looked around the loft, horrified and disgusted. "Even now, I don't believe what I'm seeing. What's gotten into you?"
Jim pulled himself onto the sofa with great effort. "Don't judge me." Unable to sit upright, Jim slumped to his side, head in his hands.
"Don't judge you? For what?" Simon was torn between anger with the situation, and compassion for such obvious pain. He pulled a chair close. "I'm your friend, Jim, maybe the only one you have left. Why didn't you call me? For God's sake, tell me what's going on." Simon noticed that Jim cringed with every word. A pained silence dragged between them. "Jim, please," he said, in the softest whisper he could manage.
"You did. All of you did. When he left."
"When he left?" For a moment, Simon couldn't make any sense of it. "Sandburg? Jim, that was years ago. And if I did judge, whatever I thought, it's in the past. This is now." Cautiously, he reached out, touching the stricken man on the shoulder. "You look like hell. You're wrecking your career, and apparently your health. Scott thinks you're potentially suicidal. What's happening here?" Gently he pried the glass from Jim's hand, and filled it with water at the sink. "Come on, try to get this down," he said, wrapping Jim's hand around the glass with his own. "Just a sip."
Jim swallowed a mouthful, and spat it violently across the room, while he choked and gagged. "Chlorine! Can't. I can't." He struggled to catch his breath. "Oh, God, Simon. They're back. The senses are back. I can't do this anymore." He lurched off the couch, heading for the bathroom, fighting waves of nausea.
He didn't make it.
****
"I'm sorry, Chief Banks, I just can't tell you any more. The IV fluids have helped the dehydration, but we haven't touched the root cause. At this point, sedation seems to be the only option. We've gone back to all Ellison's old medical records, but nothing jumps out at me. I've never seen neurological symptoms like this. Are you sure you don't have any insights?"
The physician was young, with dark hair and dark eyes. Something about him reminded Simon vaguely of Sandburg. Unfortunately, that wasn't enough to start breaking confidences. The silence lingered between them. Simon let the doctor's unspoken hopes die.
"Without some new information, or some breakthrough, he's going to be here for awhile. Long-term patients do better with some support. Does he have any family, anyone we can call?"
Simon shook his head. "His father passed last year. Jim and his only brother had a falling out at the time. No, there's no one."
Dr. Dalal frowned in concern. "No friends? Usually when we admit a police office, we have to smack the other cops out of the way."
Simon shrugged. It was just too complicated to explain that Jim's coworkers would shed no tears, much less show up for a visit. Even Captain Reston could barely muster the interest to inquire. "No," he said softly. "I'm all he's got."
The physician shook his head. "Such a strange case. Why didn't he tell anyone? Do you have any idea how long he was trying to self-medicate through the pain?"
"Not really. I - Jim hasn't been one of my direct reports since I was promoted. I just didn't know. I'd like to continue to stay with him, Doctor. Can you arrange it?"
"Of course, but you can't keep this up forever. I'll try to do some additional research and see what I can come up with before the sedation wears off. Considering his military service, maybe the VA will have some suggestions. It's a shame to have such a remarkable man in these circumstances." He left, shaking his head as he moved quietly down the hall. Simon slipped back into Jim's hospital room, softly closing the door behind him.
He settled into a chair, knowing guilt would be his companion on this night. At least Jim seemed to be resting, at peace for a few hours. He, however, was feeling anything but peaceful. A darkened hospital room gave you plenty of time with your own thoughts.
How could he answer the doctor's questions? Was it time to break faith with old secrets, even those still kept? The seeds of this poisonous fruit had been sown three, almost four, years ago - the night Sandburg took Jim's verbal blasts for the last time, and walked away. Why hadn't he stopped them from tearing each other apart?
"Don't judge me." Now that statement was a surprise. Sure, he'd been pissed as hell over Jim's indifference to Sandburg's departure. Jim certainly hadn't acted as though he cared about anyone's opinion. He hadn't shown an iota of guilt or concern at the time. Had the opinions of his colleagues, imagined or actual, really been eating at him all this time?
Why had he let Jim slip away by inches after he'd been promoted out of Major Crime? Oh yeah, he'd covered for him, pulled strings when Jim's bad attitude got him crosswise with his current commander, shifted him around. Jim's solve rate had stayed relatively high, and Simon had assumed it was just a matter of finding the right fit. Obviously, he hadn't known what had been going on, and hadn't really tried to find out.
And the senses? He could still hear the echo of Jim's voice, flat and unemotional, stating that the senses were gone. Over, done, and gone. If Blair couldn't accept that, then it was better he leave. Had it all been a lie, even then? Had Jim just pushed them away, only to have them resurface as his personal life spun out of control?
Jim moaned softly. Simon rose, and grasped his hand. They'd pumped Jim with enough drugs to bring down a buffalo. How could he still be in pain? Slowly Jim settled. Maybe his presence had helped, or maybe not.
He just didn't know.
****
Blair sighed, content to watch the sun come up over the lake. The still of dawn, even as fall edged into winter, was his favorite time of the day. The irony amused him. In his younger days, he'd never been an early riser. He blew across the top of his coffee, relishing the warmth seeping through his knitted gloves.
A pink and orange halo glistened around the snow-topped volcano as the sun edged into the sky. The day would warm up, but winter was just around the corner in this southern section of the Andes. He looked across the garden to the main lodge. Marta's light would come on in ten minutes or so. They had a full guest house, and lots to do today. That's what he liked about his job; always plenty of distractions. No great ethical dilemmas to solve, just a straightforward and simple life. Still, another summer season was drawing to a close. In a few more weeks he'd leave Chile, head back to Europe, and do summer all over again. It was the perfect solution for a guy who hated rain and damp. He rarely thought about Cascade anymore, or - Jim.
Stop it. Just stop it. No need to travel down that path again. So what if you saw a guy yesterday who reminded you of Jim? Like Ellison's the only one with that profile? Shit, you don't even know how he looks now. It's been years, too long to keep wishing for what might have been.
He pushed those thoughts aside. Concentrate on the immediate. Help with breakfast, organize the groups. Two tours to the lake, a group out for fishing, and he'd volunteered to take the kayakers in the afternoon so Gregg could run into town. He needed to sort the offers for the summer tours in Europe, sign his contracts, talk to Marta and Gregg about next year.
They're getting older. One year they'll want to retire, and then what? No. Stop it. Live now. Keep it simple and immediate, no past, only the present. The future will take care of itself.
He slipped back into his living quarters, peeled off the gloves and the coat, rinsed his mug in the tiny sink. He needed a quick stop in the bathroom to brush his teeth, then off to the main house and the guests and the activity of the day, far from his own haunting thoughts.
He glanced into the mirror and forced a smile. The shorter hair still surprised him, though he'd cut it when he'd left Cascade. It was sure easier now, but did you always see yourself as you were at twenty? He wasn't so different. Same eyes. Same laugh. Same smile. He still taught, in his own way. Still studied, even wrote occasionally. He always managed to pick up a few paid weeks every year helping some university group. Things were just fine.
Weren't they?
****
"Jim! Jim, calm down, they're coming, I promise." Simon frantically pushed the call button again, struggling to catch Jim's flailing hands in his own. Jim smashed his head against the railing until Simon pinned the thrashing body with his own. Incoherent whimpers sharpened to a frantic wail.
What a nightmare. Nurses, orderlies, God knew who else flooded in, yelling and milling around all at once. The noise and confusion would only make things worse. Before he realized it, they were tying Jim into restraints. Jim screamed in fury, or pain, or maybe both. Simon shoved one of the male orderlies away, nearly losing his hold on Jim. "Get his doctor. Now! Find him, and get him here. I mean it!"
His physical presence was enough to make the others retreat. Simon pinned Jim's shoulders with his elbows, holding the thrashing head still between his hands. "Jim, look at me. No, look at me! Jim, come on, please!"
The bleary eyes focused for a moment. "Simon?"
Simon wanted to shout for joy. Jim hadn't been coherent for days. He kept his voice low. "Yeah, buddy. It's me."
Jim's eyes rolled wildly. "Make it stop. Make it stop."
"Make what stop? No one knows, so you've got to tell me." Jim couldn't, or wouldn't, answer. Simon looked up to see Jim's doctor come flying into the room.
"Did he tell you anything? Any clue?"
Simon shook his head. Dalal's hopeful expression faded into a frown. Jim thrashed frantically under Simon's hold, his eyes tightly closed. Dalal administered more drugs into the IV. Simon felt Jim's body slowly go limp beneath him.
Dalal checked Jim's pulse, and watched his respiration for a few minutes. "Banks, we can't keep doing this. It's going to kill him."
"You're the doctor," Simon answered, looking away helplessly.
The doctor's voice rose in frustration. "You say you're his friend. How can you look at him and let this go on? You know more than you're telling me. Whatever it is that's holding you back, hasn't he gone through enough?"
Simon stroked his finger along Jim's cheek. A dark bruise from the bedrail was already forming on his temple. Jim's ankles and one arm were tied to the bed. Blood dripped from where the IV needle had torn the skin. Forgive me, Jim. I can't do anything else.
Grasping Jim's hand, he nodded. "You're right, enough is enough. You're going to have to take what I say as gospel, without a lot of explanation. Try my suggestions, and they will either work or they won't."
Dalal's eyes flashed angrily. "Of all the stubborn, misguided... This pisses me off, but for the sake of my patient, I accept. Damn you."
Simon took a deep breath. "For starters, I think we need to find a room with some soundproofing."
****
Simon pulled up in front of the Taggart home, still wearing the clothes stained with sweat and smears of blood. Joel met him at the door, dressed in khakis and a sweater. Retirement agreed with him. Joel looked vibrant, and younger than when he'd taken his twenty and hung up his badge. Simon patted him affectionately on the gut. "You lose another ten, Joel?"
Joel laughed. "Actually, closer to fifteen, and my cholesterol levels get gold stars these days. Good to see you, Simon. Come on in."
"Sorry to barge in on such short notice."
"Let me take your coat. I put on fresh coffee when you called." Joel led the way into the study. "You been doing ten rounds with assorted bad guys? I didn't think they let the big shots out on the streets these days."
Simon glanced down at his rumpled attire in disgust. "I look a sight, don't I?" He accepted the coffee gratefully. He'd been living on the stuff, but the brew in the hospital didn't really pass muster. "I must have upset your dinner plans."
Joel grinned, settling into his favorite chair. "Not a bit. Evie is with the grandchildren for a week, and I'm not on a schedule, other than to show up at the academy now and then. How's Daryl?"
"Good. Busy. He seems happy." Simon shifted uncomfortably, wondering how to start.
Joel smiled. "Relax, Simon. You didn't dash over here without a reason. Just say it."
Simon took a deep breath. "I - I know we haven't always agreed." He stopped. The aftermath of Sandburg's departure had left their friendship in tatters. Joel saw things differently. Simon accepted that. They'd come to terms and patched things up, but Ellison and Sandburg were topics they didn't discuss, ever. Unfortunately, he had no choice but to go on. "Ellison's in the hospital. Joel, you know where he is. I know you do. I need to talk to Sandburg, as soon as possible."
Joel froze, his jaw set. "No, and you know better than to ask."
"Look, Jim's bad, and I'm sure..."
"No. It's not going to happen." Joel stood up abruptly. "We've been friends a long time, but maybe you should leave. We're just not having this discussion." He was already walking out of the room.
"Joel, wait! You don't understand." Simon bolted from the chair. "I know how you feel, but please hear me out," he begged. "I can't ask anyone else. There's no one else of the old group left."
Joel spun on his heel and closed the distance between them. "You just noticed this? And why is that, Simon? You're the one who doesn't understand. You never did. You didn't get it then, and you don't get it now!"
"What are you talking about?" Simon asked, stunned by the fury in Joel's voice.
"You're a smart man, Simon, but when it comes to Ellison, you're blind and deaf, no pun intended." Simon couldn't quite hide his shock, and Joel shook his head in obvious disgust. "Did you really think you kept us all in the dark? The 'old group', as you put it, knew. They also knew what Blair gave up. That he lied through his teeth, and Jim let him. You let him."
Simon gaped. Somehow his reaction provoked Joel all the more.
Sandburg took the badge. He worked his ass off and it still wasn't good enough. You maneuvered Blair into that position from the beginning, and you had a moral obligation to intercede when Jim lost it. Instead of stepping in, you pretended like it had nothing to do with you. How could you? The entire setup was your creation." Simon gaped, unable to generate a response. "Everyone saw it except you, Simon, and no one else could stand to be part of the silence. When Blair left, the rest of them were gone within months. Didn't you ever wonder why? Brown put in for a transfer days after he and Jim nearly came to blows in the bullpen. Rafe felt the same way. He gave up on being a cop completely. Megan found a reason to go back to Australia, even though she loved being in Cascade."."
"But you stayed," Simon said haltingly. He was tired, and this flood of angry information was just too much to process.
"Simon, we're only friends to this day because we agreed to disagree. We barely patched things up between us. If we hadn't been longtime friends, I'm not sure it would have happened."
"But Sandburg left years ago," Simon protested. What was it Jim had said? Don't judge me?
"Yes, he did, as if that absolves you, or Jim, for that matter. And Blair Sandburg is still picking up the pieces to this day. I will not sacrifice what little peace he has on the altar of Ellison, not again. I won't do it."
"Joel, hear me out. Listen to reason. Jim's getting worse by the day, and I don't think he's going to make it. Do you think Blair would really want that?"
"Don't you dare try to guilt him in absentia! Blair's a shadow of what he should have been, and now you want more? Let Ellison live with his own choices. Everyone else has had to." Joel took a step back, visibly trying to calm himself. "That's enough, Simon. I'll show you out."
Simon followed Joel to the door, confused and sick at heart. "How long have we been friends, Joel?"
"A long time, Simon, but I won't do this, not even for you."
"Okay. I accept that, and maybe I've read this wrong for years. I respect your decision, as a man and as a friend. I'm going to ask you to do one thing, and then I'll never bring the subject up again."
"And what would that be, Simon?"
"Just come with me to the hospital. See him, and then decide."
Joel watched him gravely. "All right, Simon. I'll do that much."
****
Getting Taggart in to see Jim was more complicated than anticipated. Rules, rules and more rules. Joel said nothing while Simon negotiated their way through Jim's doctor, into the psych ward, and finally toward Jim's darkened room. Joel caught his hand as he reached to open the door. "No, Simon. I'll see him alone, or not at all."
"He hasn't really been coherent for over a week. I'm not sure he'll even recognize you."
"This isn't negotiable, Simon. If you want my cooperation, even this far, we'll have to do it my way." The two men faced off, and Simon reluctantly nodded. He stepped back, motioning Joel on, regretting that things had come to such an impasse.
The nighttime halls of the hospital were darkened, and traffic in the psych area was eerily absent. Simon located a single plastic chair and sat down across from Jim's door. His shoulders slumped with fatigue. Continuous caffeine could only keep you going for so long. He leaned his head back against the wall, and closed his eyes. After nearly two weeks of days and nights, being either at Jim's bedside or at the office, he was so, so tired.
He must have dozed. He jerked awake with Joel shaking his shoulder. Simon looked up, hoping to see the answer in his friend's eyes. "Damn you for asking me, Simon. Blair's in Chile. He spends the summers helping an American couple run a guest lodge, then goes to Europe and leads student tours during the European summer." Joel looked away, and the dim light glistened off what might have been tears. "May God forgive me for doing this."
Simon struggled out of the chair. He ached in every bone. "I'll get some time off. Take the first available flight."
"No, Simon. Not you. I'll go. If I'm going to break my promise to Blair, I'm going to do it looking him in the eye."
"Why did you change your mind?" Simon glanced toward the door to Jim's room. "He's in so much pain..."
"Jim Ellison can roast over a spit in hell for all eternity," Joel said bitterly. "His physical pain is inconsequential compared to the damage he's done."
"Then why? Do you really hate him so much?"
"Don't ask the question if you don't want the answer. I'll see Blair for one reason. Because Blair's never really healed from the break, and as it stands, he never will. If he ever heard that Ellison died this way, the guilt would overwhelm him. He doesn't deserve any of this." Joel closed his eyes and went silent. After an obvious internal struggle, he said in a quieter voice, "He's still a young man, and he deserves a chance to do something with his life other than drift in limbo. I think it's worth the risk to give him a chance to close the book on Ellison for good. Maybe he can do this last thing and, in the biblical sense, shake the dust from his sandals."
The depth of Joel's emotions took Simon's breath away. To hear this from the most even- tempered of men - well, it would take some thinking. "Whatever your reasons, I'm grateful." He grasped Joel's elbow, wanting him to know that he meant what he said.
"Don't be. Even if Blair forgives me, I'm not sure I'll ever forgive you for asking me to drag him back into this. Blair didn't come to you that last night, he came to me, and I feel a responsibility to honor that trust. At the time, I managed to excuse your behavior because you really didn't understand the whole situation. I thought maybe it was because Blair quit the force and Jim didn't. I don't have any illusions now." Joel shook his hand off. "I'll get a cab home."
****
Simon's days melted into a hellish treadmill of hospital and work. Jim's isolation in the psych unit had helped, at least in the sense that he no longer screamed away his few waking hours in agony. The drugs had gradually stopped. Instead he was awake, but withdrawn and unresponsive. The doctor was starting to talk about things like severe depression and psychosis.
Still no word came from Joel. Simon began to despair. Even allowing for travel time, he had expected to hear something by now. He spent hours wondering about Joel's accusations. He'd always prided himself on being a hands-on leader, knowing his people, sensitive to their needs. To hear Joel's bitter voice explain that his core personnel had been on a different page all along, and had left because of it - that was a real blow.
He finally made a long-overdue visit to Scott Reston's office.
"Disability papers?" Scott asked incredulously. "Want to explain to me how an asshole attitude constitutes a disability?"
"They don't, but Jim can't return to duty. Do you really want the state to take over his care?"
Reston studied the papers, then looked at Simon shrewdly. "With all due respect, sir, I don't think you're being entirely truthful with me. I don't like signing my name to something that's likely to come back and bite me in the ass."
"And if I said I just couldn't tell you? That it dates back to Major Crime, and I'll take the heat?"
Reston shook his head. "Sorry, sir. It's too much to ask. Even if I could stretch it to trust you, I sure don't trust Ellison. He's never given me any reason to."
Simon considered the man across from him. He really couldn't blame Reston. He would have reacted the same way. Scott deserved some kind of explanation. "When Jim was in Major Crime, he had - for lack of a better term - an edge. Sandburg was part of it. The short version is that it's making him sick. He tried to cover it, and now it's overwhelmed him."
"Come on," Reston said skeptically. "Are you seriously telling me that some of that superman bullshit was legit?"
"I'm telling you there was a solid reason that Jim Ellison was Cop of the Year multiple times, and a valid reason that he's having problems now. And yes, Sandburg was part of the picture. I'm trying to get him back to Cascade, see if we can get him to patch Jim up to the point that he can be a functioning human being. At least then, if the department has to cut him loose, he could make it on his own." At some level. I hope.
"Okay, say I buy it, which I don't. That still doesn't give me a reason to put my signature on bogus disability forms. This is my professional reputation we're talking about here."
Simon realized he'd have to try another tack. "I can understand your position. All disability cases have a six-month review. Sign the papers now. If the situation isn't resolved by the first hearing, I'll pull them myself. I'll put the request in writing, make it as ironclad as possible. Give me six months to put it right, and then you're out of it."
Scott didn't answer. He seemed unconvinced. Simon sensed it was now or never. "Ellison did nearly a year under your command. I know you had misgivings. You shared some of them with me. In all that time, did he ever show something you thought was worth saving?"
Reston remembered that day in his office. The hollow look in Ellison's eyes still haunted him. Hot heads and cold hearts. Without further comment, he turned to the last page of the documents before him and added his signature.
Jim Ellison would have his six months.
****
Joel Taggart stepped off the bus, his carryon bag draped over one shoulder. Journeying to this pristine corner of Chile was always an adventure in and of itself. The view of the lake, rimmed by snowcapped mountains, was breathtaking. He'd made three trips here to visit Sandburg. His Spanish was tourist basic, and it took a moment to get his bearings. He strolled through the main plaza, bought a pastry, and took a few moments to orient himself. Lake to the right, a favorite restaurant to the left, and the volcano straight ahead, up the hill and veer left. He set out.
The walk through town made him grateful he'd lost those last pounds. Damn if the altitude didn't get him every time, the penalty of living most of his life at sea level. One final turn and the guest lodge came into view. The last of a summer flower garden bordered the walk to the stone and wood guest house. Blair was outside, rinsing down three kayaks that rested on frames in the side yard.
Joel paused to watch a moment. Physically, Sandburg looked good, with a tanned face and short, sun-bleached curls dancing over a fleece ear-band as he scrubbed a patch of mud off one of the boats. The outdoor life here agreed with his younger friend.
Joel leaned across the waist-high gate. "Hey there, stranger. Looking good."
Blair looked up. "Joel? Oh my God! Why didn't you let me know you were coming?" With a wide grin he started in Joel's direction before realizing the hose was still in his hand. "Just a sec, let me turn this thing off. Did you ride the bus?" Water off, he abandoned the hose and greeted Joel with open arms. "You should have called. Marta would have loaned me the car to come pick you up."
Joel returned the enthusiastic greeting. "But I like the bus. I always get first class treatment. They think I'm Denzel, you know."
Blair laughed. "That's right. My American friend, Denzel. Get in here. We just finished a late lunch, and I know for a fact there are leftover sandwiches."
"Hey, I'm experienced. I had a pastry in town."
Blair pulled Joel's bag onto his own shoulder. "Which you promptly burned off hiking all the way up here. Besides, Marta would be insulted. Is this all your luggage, or did you leave some in town?"
"No way. It costs more now to check bags than to buy the ticket."
Blair laughed again, and they walked to the back of the guest house, chatting about the weather and the trip. Blair waved Joel toward a seat on a broad patio overlooking the lake and then disappeared through the back door. Joel kept his jacket on despite the bright sunshine. Blair returned with a stack of sandwiches, and two frosty beers tucked under one arm.
"That looks like more than leftovers."
"Don't kid me, Joel. Did you even get a measly bag of peanuts on the flight? Marta heard you were here and is warming up some apple dessert. Don't turn her down."
"Not much chance of that."
They clinked bottles in a toast. "It's good to see you."
"Tell me what you've been up to." Joel sat back, basked in the sun, and listened to it all; the plans for summer in Europe, the recent guests, the fishing at the north end of the lake, the kayak trips to see the glacier. Marta arrived with the dessert and an insistent invitation for dinner. Finally buried under charm on two fronts, Joel relented.
And then it was just the two of them. Blair picked at the label on the beer, looking out over the lake. "It's a little late for fishing, Joel. As much as I'd like to pretend, I know you're here for a reason. Why don't you just go ahead and tell me."
Joel sighed. "I don't want to. Lord knows, I don't want to."
"You're a good man, Joel, and a good friend. What is it about Jim that you need to tell me?"
"How did you guess? Damn that man to the depths of hell. The last thing I want to do is add to your hurt."
"I know that." Blair swallowed hard. "Is he dead?"
Joel hesitated for a moment, contemplating that. End it with a lie that was nearly the truth. Instead, he studied Blair's unwavering gaze, those blue depthless eyes, and told him everything.
Blair listened to the whole tale silently, with no outward emotion. When Joel ran out of words, he finally spoke. "Is he in pain?"
"At first, yes, at least as I understand it. Screaming, unrelenting anguish. Now that they've transferred him to the psych ward, which is when I saw him, I'd say he's closer to catatonic. Not much response to anything. They're having trouble feeding him."
Blair thought for a moment. "He's hiding. They can do that, you know, or at least I think they can. Just turn everything down until nothing comes in. I wonder how many sentinels have ended up this way, just drifting off to where no one can reach them. Simon really doesn't understand, does he?"
"No, not really. I'm afraid I blistered him pretty thoroughly when he came to see me. I still don't understand how he was, and still is, so unaware."
"We all see the world through our own lens," Blair said distantly.
"Or our own blinders." Anger clouded Joel's face. "You didn't deserve it Blair, not any of it. It was despicable, without honor. You don't owe Jim anything."
"And what if I still love him? He was my closest friend. The brother I never had."
Joel sighed. And there it was, out in the open, the force that would drive a vibrant, intelligent young man to the literal end of the earth. "I'd tell you to avoid him like the poisonous snake he is, that he isn't worthy of your devotion, even as a friend. But honestly, I was afraid you would say that."
"Yeah," Blair drawled. "I'm pretty predictable. I have these long talks with myself on a regular basis, and just can't get past it. Let me guess. You turned Simon down flat, and then changed your mind. Why did you give in to Simon and bring the message?"
"To be honest, I didn't come right away. I stayed in Cascade for a good two weeks, vacillating. In the end, it's because you deserve to make the choice yourself. If I took it out of your hands, no matter how well-meaning, it would be wrong. It would always be a ragged unfinished edge."
"I'm grateful for that. I wish...let's just say a lot of people from Naomi on haven't given me the same consideration."
"Before you decide, could I just bring something out for you to think about? Say you go back, see him, maybe even help him. What's the next step after that?"
"How can I possibly know?"
"Exactly my point. You can't. My fear is that it's a slippery slope. Once you start, it will be harder and harder to break free. You can't let him treat you like - you can't be at his beck and call and keep your self-respect."
Blair studied his friend intently. "You knew all this, and you came anyway. There's something you're not saying. Are you afraid of hurting my feelings, Joel?"
"You know, sometimes I wish you didn't read me so well. In a word, yes."
"Then I want you to say it anyway, right now. I respect what you think. We'll have a great dinner tonight. I promise I'll consider everything you have to say. I'll sleep on it and make a decision." He looked vulnerable, almost fragile in the late afternoon light.
Emotion surged through Joel, and he swallowed hard. "You're like a son to me. I'd do anything to protect you. You left, made a new life, healed, and I'm proud of you."
"Thanks, big guy. Not everyone would see it that way, but to hear it from you means a lot."
"I also know you've been drifting. It's ironic. You're living your mother's vision; completely free, no attachments, traveling the world. You can do it and be happy. Problem is, that life isn't what you really wanted. It's not your dream, and in a sense, to continue this way will never really be your life. It's promise unfulfilled, and it breaks my heart."
Blair gazed out over the lake. "Look at this place. It isn't a bad life."
"I prayed all the way down that I could say this so it would make sense. Finish with Jim, and let it be truly over, so you can live as more than a shadow of what could be." Tears formed in Joel's eyes. "Forgive me for saying that so harshly."
Without understanding how it happened, Blair was out of his chair and wrapped the larger man in a hug.
****
"Captain Banks, I know this is tough, but we really have to make a decision."
Simon looked across the conference room. Suits and white coats abounded, and he was outnumbered. "This care center you'd like to transfer Jim to. I know it's cheaper, and you get your room in the psych ward back for someone else to use, but why is it better for Jim?"
One of the faceless multitude answered. "We're not designed as a long-term care facility, Chief Banks. Detective Ellison would have more options for therapy. We have hopes that a change in setting might encourage him to be more responsive. He could be outdoors on the grounds, for example."
"Or they can drug him to the gills, like every other noncompliant patient. He can stay tied into a chair or left in a corner somewhere." Simon rubbed his temple and wished that would be enough to banish his headache. This was becoming a continual drumbeat, and still he had no word from Joel. He was out of options and had no more ammunition for the fight. "Can you guarantee me access to him as the department's representative? Consider my input into his care?"
Jim's neurosurgeon nodded gravely. "I'll remain his primary physician. I've already spoken to the staff personally. If there's no improvement over the next few months, I'll also expedite a transfer to a VA facility that can provide the best for him. He won't be abandoned."
God help me, Jim never wanted to go back into the clutches of the US government. He never wanted any of this. "All right, I agree." Reluctantly, Simon accepted the paperwork and added his signature where required.
Three days later, with muted sunlight filtering in, he sat next to Jim's bedside, waiting, hoping, for him to wake. After much consternation, the hospital had administered additional sedatives, ostensibly to reduce the distress of the transfer. Jim had been out ever since.
Simon took grim credit for the little he had been able to accomplish. Jim was assigned to the last room at the end of a standalone wing to reduce noise. The room was cool, but the windows were slightly open and would remain that way. Hopefully, fresh air would make Jim more comfortable. Two chairs from the loft had been moved into the room, and Simon had filled the drawers with sweats and other casual clothes. The hospital gowns would be history, even if he had to come here and dress Jim every morning. A search of the loft had turned up ear plugs and Jim's sleep mask, which were positioned by the bedside.
Jim's eyes fluttered and then opened. He rolled to his side, and groaned.
Simon knelt so he was in Jim's field of vision. "Hey," he whispered. "Are you thirsty?"
Jim watched him, unblinking, for a moment. Then he turned slightly and buried his head in the sheets. He never spoke, or moved, in the many hours before Simon finally left.
****
"Okay, stay right where you are," Blair said. He brought his own kayak in a wide circle. "Smile for the camera, Joel. I want this shot with the mountains in the background."
Joel broke into a cheesy grin. "No one is going to believe you got me into one of these things. I look like a whale balanced on a twig. My shoulders and arms are going to be soooo sore tomorrow."
Blair snapped a few more photos. "Yeah, but wasn't it worth it?"
"Without a doubt. I'm glad you insisted. Seeing the glacier from the water gives you a whole different perspective."
Blair checked the sun. "Time to head home, big guy. The breeze comes up in the afternoon. You're doing great as a mariner, but I don't want to fight a chop all the way home."
They paddled side by side back to the lodge's dock. Blair was right. By the time their destination was in sight, the wind was against them and paddling was getting harder by the minute. They stored the kayaks in a rack and strolled through the back garden.
"Why don't you catch a shower, and I'll meet you in an hour or so?" Blair said. "I want to check a few things with Marta. I asked her about dinner and she has something special for your last night."
Joel wearily stretched one shoulder, then the other. "Marta's dinners are always special."
"She's putting us on the upper deck. The other guests will be in the dining room. Supposedly, the wine for our antipasto is already breathing." He waved, and trotted off toward the lodge's office. "See you in a few."
****
"What did you say this was again?" Joel asked.
Blair went to the sideboard and checked. "It says merlot and cab blend - , Clos Apalta, 2005. Marta says it's the best wine ever produced in Chile and worthy of a special occasion." Joel's eyebrows rose, but he waited for Blair to direct the conversation. "I told her last night that I needed to leave before the end of the season. She and Gregg were very understanding."
"So you've made a decision," Joel said. Blair's 'night to sleep on it' had stretched on for three days. He'd asked Joel a few questions, but mostly they'd filled their time with hikes, picnics and lots of quiet conversations about every topic other than Jim Ellison.
"Yeah. Thought about it a lot." Blair swirled the wine in his glass. "I decided the decision needed to be separated into 'then' and 'now'. Leaving the other entanglements aside, Jim's a human being and he's in trouble. I wouldn't walk past a bleeding man on the street."
"This is more than first aid on the street."
"It is, but I'm in a unique position. I have information no one else has. Part of that knowledge was based in my relationship with Jim, but not all of it. I had years of study and experience, some of it unique, to draw on. That knowledge has an obligation, just like a physician who doesn't refuse to treat."
"I can understand that," Joel said slowly. "Forgive me if I worry."
"It scares the hell out of me, but not being able to look myself in the mirror is pretty scary, too." He brought their wine back to the table and added to their glasses. "You were right, though. I have been hiding. Even if Jim wasn't having this crisis, it's long past the time to stop drifting. I called in some markers." He snorted. "In the irony of all ironies, most of them involve my mother. When I'm finished in Cascade, I'm going to start with the Gates Foundation in Seattle."
"Really? That's great! Doing what?"
Blair smiled. "They're doing malaria work in South America. Turns out I have some skills they're interested in. The position is about half and half planning and travel. I think it will be a good start."
"So you're coming with me tomorrow? And you're sure?"
Blair nodded. "I'm sure, Joel. As sure as I'll ever be."
****
Blair did his best to remain civil. "Yes, I do understand. It's irregular, and I assure you it's unavoidable. Please just pass the message to Dr. Dalal. I've been sent by Captain Banks concerning Jim Ellison."
The office manager was unmoved. "Doctor Dalal is heavily scheduled today, and he's not going to discuss a patient with you. There are federal regulations. As I said, it would be best if you just left your number."
"I'm happy to wait. Please give him the message." Blair smiled, and indulged in a silent tirade about the state of the universe. He settled back into a waiting room chair with his book. He stared at the page without reading, breathing deeply to control his impatience. The inconvenience was a result of his own choice. He could have opted to call Simon first, but he'd honestly prefer to avoid the current Deputy Chief of Police for the moment.
After more waiting, he realized a male voice had joined the female chorus beyond the appointment windows. The door to the waiting room opened, and a lean, dark-haired man appeared. "You're here about Jim Ellison?"
Showtime. Blair stood, trying for a calm he didn't really feel. "Yes, I am. It's nice to meet you, Dr. Dalal. I hope there is somewhere we can speak privately."
They retreated to what was clearly Dalal's private office. The man was gracious enough to provide coffee, even though the office staff glared at their visitor like an invading cockroach. "Maybe you could explain what this is about," the physician said briskly. "I knew Chief Banks had sent for someone, but I assumed that I would be hearing from him personally when you arrived."
"I just got in, and I chose to come here first. What I have to say doesn't really concern Simon." Blair took another sip of coffee, hoping that the speech he'd been rehearsing all the way from Chile would reach this man. "I first met Jim when I was a graduate student at Rainier. I rode with him as an observer. I later joined the police force and was his partner. We had a serious disagreement, and I left Cascade several years ago. We haven't spoken since."
Disappointment flared across Dalal's face. "If that is the case, I don't understand how you can be of help." He frowned. "For whatever reason, I'm damn certain Banks has never shared everything he knows about Ellison. If this is more of the same, we're both wasting our time."
"My research actually involved Jim. I have information that may help you with his treatment. In other words, I don't want you to break doctor-patient privilege. In fact, if you're willing to listen, we're going to be doing the exact opposite."
"I see," Dalal said cautiously. "So you're going to tell me how to treat him? And you got your medical degree exactly when?"
"I don't blame you for being skeptical," Blair said. "For now, just be assured that everything I tell you is documented and factual." He opened a small notebook and rattled off hearing and visions measurements. "Those were Jim's measurements the last time I tested them. You're a neurologist, so I'm sure you realize those readings are far outside the average person's abilities." Dalal started to interrupt, and Blair held up a hand. "Give me a few minutes. At one time, Jim could put a hand on your forehead and tell body temperature, accurate to the nearest tenth. He'd be perfect ninety percent of the time. If I gave him ten different strips of cotton blend fabric, he could arrange them in order of composition. He could tell you every spice in a complicated sauce, and hear a heartbeat from across the street."
"You're not serious," Dalal said in disbelief.
"Dead serious. Jim used those abilities as a detective. He was the best of the best. He could find and interpret clues others couldn't even guess at. This isn't a fairytale. My training was in Anthropology, and Simon will tell you the same thing. Members of tribal cultures know about people like Jim. I had the academic background to help him use his abilities, to manage his everyday existence. To make a long story short, that's how I ended up working in Major Crime."
Dalal leaned back in his chair. "Okay, say I buy it."
"When we - disagreed - Jim 'turned his senses off'', to use his words. Let me back up. I assume you know something about his military service?"
"Yes, of course. I reviewed everything that could possibly be relevant."
"When Jim was in Peru, his senses became active. The local tribe took him in for eighteen months. He was mentored by a shaman. It's complicated, but Jim had episodes when his senses seemed to turn off. In the shaman's words, 'A sentinel is a sentinel if he chooses to be.' Jim has tried for almost four years to turn himself off."
"Okay," Dalal said slowly. "I'm not sure I understand."
"For Incacha, the shaman, it was a simple choice - on or off. He based that conclusion on life in an Amazon rainforest and centuries of cultural conditioning. Jim has every reason to accept that interpretation. He wants them off, he turns them off. Problem is, you can't turn off the way your brain is wired, and Jim isn't operating in the Amazon. He's assaulted with more sensory information than any tribal sentinel would ever be faced with." Dalal nodded slowly, so he continued. "Jim is relentlessly pounded by stimuli. He can't really 'turn off', not like Incacha anticipated. The sensory abilities came back, and he can't control them. Imagine being open to that flood of information, and what must happen when you lose the ability to control the flood. You fluctuate between being deaf, or hearing so acutely that it hurts. You can't eat because your food has the taste of sawdust or is so spicy you can't bear it. A sunny day hurts your eyes. You can't sleep because you hear a dripping faucet two blocks away."
Dalal's eyes went wide. "So you're saying that's why he's in pain." Dalal frowned. "Even if what you say is true, it doesn't explain why he'd suddenly have this meltdown. What precipitated the crisis?"
Blair leaned forward, grateful he hadn't already been tossed out on his ear. "How do you suppose he turns his senses down, or off, medically speaking? What would the mechanism be? Just be theoretical for a minute."
The question took Dalal aback. "He wouldn't be able to change the physical structure of his ear or other sensory cells. It would have to be interpretive. I suppose it could be some weird biofeedback, like we teach patients for pain control. Alter the brain chemistry somehow."
"So, just being theoretical here, what happens to - say a crack addict - as the addiction worsens?"
"Chemicals in the brain are depleted. The high doesn't come. The drug stops working." Dalal had answered automatically, almost by reflex.
Blair nodded. "Think about what you just said."
"It stops working," Dalal said haltingly. "Whatever he was doing, it just stops working."
"Puts a different spin on it, doesn't it?"
Dalal was out of his seat. "But he's nearly comatose now. Is it psychosis?"
"Let's imagine someone who experiences severe trauma, torture even. Haven't there been cases where the individual retreats from the real world? Would the situation be analogous?"
"Oh my God. We would have been doing everything wrong." Dalal was pacing up and down his office space, pulling books from the shelf. The wheels were spinning. "This could explain why the drugs we're administering don't work, why the alcohol didn't work. I need to read. There must be cases...I need to consult with a psychologist." He looked up. "Wait a minute," he said, eyes wide, staring at Blair. "Why didn't Banks just tell me? Oh..."
"Yeah," Blair said, nodding his head. "You figured it out. No one was ever supposed to know. Jim didn't want to be a freak of nature. If he knew what I've just told you, he'd rise up off that bed you have him in and kill me with his bare hands."
****
"So you haven't called Simon?" Joel asked. They were cleaning up the remains of a spaghetti dinner with Joel's family. The ladies had prepared the meal. The least they could do was clean up.
"No," Blair said, handing Joel a pot to dry and put away. "The doctor may have, but Simon doesn't really concern me."
"And Seattle? How did that go?"
"People seemed great. The project is interesting. They were willing to be flexible about the start date. I brought a bunch of background reports back with me. I can read them while I'm here and actually be up to speed." He handed Joel the washed pasta bowl and pulled the plug on the sink. "You're sure you don't mind me camping out here for the duration?"
"It's not a problem in the least. We're happy to have you." They finished tidying up the kitchen. Joel fished around in his pants pocket. "As requested, here's the key to the loft."
Blair held the key in his hand for a moment. Then he took out his wallet and slid it behind his new driver's license. His old one had lapsed while he'd been living in Chile. "Since I'm legal to drive again, if it's still okay for me to borrow your car, I'll head over there. Unless Dalal changes his mind, I'm supposed to meet him at his office at eight."
Joel chuckled. "You're not one of my girls when they were teenagers. Of course take the car. Don't worry about coming in late, either. My opinion hasn't changed. The sooner this is over, the better."
"I guess we'll see. I'll call if anything happens."
It didn't hit him until he was standing on the threshold of the loft, turning the key. Being back here, at his former home, brought back a whole rush of memories. He shoved those thoughts aside and walked in.
The air smelled still and musty. He fumbled for the light-switch, and then froze in shock.
It was a mess. A bona fide, full-fledged, unadulterated mess. Jim Ellison, the man of color- coded Tupperware and house rules, couldn't possibly have lived here. Slowly, he bent and picked up an empty liquor bottle, one of many. The enormity of what he was seeing was hard to digest.
He checked the bathroom. This was not the shrine to cleanliness that Jim reverently scrubbed with a toothbrush. Had he not cared, or had the act of dealing with cleaners been too much? Blair steeled himself and pushed open the French door. The tiny space was bare. Jim hadn't even used it as a storage space. Had Jim hated him so much that he'd removed every trace?
Drain the wound, Blair. You can do this. Get past it and move on.
He climbed the stairs, abandoning the whiskey bottle on the first step. He clicked on the overhead light, and sat down abruptly on the side of the bed, numb. He didn't know how to explain this. He just didn't understand any of it.
Along the back wall, Jim had hung the tribal masks and the Navajo rugs Blair had abandoned when he'd fled Cascade. Books, ones that were obviously his, were arranged neatly on a row of shelves. Jim had gone to sleep every night, every single night, looking at these objects that he so clearly associated with the man he'd discarded.
The nightstand seemed the same. Along with Jim's book and watch sat a leather folio he didn't recognize. He opened it. On one side, Jim had mounted a photo. Blair stared in disbelief. Jim had chosen a picture of the two of them in dress uniform, arms wrapped around each other's shoulders. Blair vaguely remembered the occasion. On the opposite side, he'd taped a sheet of yellow lined paper, folded in half, much wrinkled from handling. Blair's hand shook as he raised the fold, already suspecting what he would find. It was the note he'd written Jim the night he'd left. That night, oozing with hurt and anger, he'd taped the key to the loft right below his signature. It was still there.
Blair closed his eyes, barely able to breathe. Tears slid down his cheeks.
****
The doorbell rang. Joel set his book aside. Sandburg must have forgotten to take the house key. He opened the door, already wondering how things had gone. Simon Banks was waiting on the step. He was bareheaded, and his raincoat was beaded with moisture. "I apologize, Joel. I didn't call. I felt...I had to come."
Joel took a step back. "It's a wet night. I guess you'd better come in."
They went through the usual motions, taking the coat, getting coffee. Joel returned with two mugs and handed one to his guest. "You don't have to ask permission to sit."
Banks nodded, and chose the chair opposite Joel's. He remembered a time when he had a warmer welcome in this room. "Thanks. We didn't part on very good terms."
Joel nodded. "And you weren't sure how I'd react. I understand."
"How's Sandburg?"
Joel's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "You could just ask him, you know."
Simon loosened his tie and sank back into the chair. He was too tired to do any verbal sparring. "I tried. He wouldn't take my call."
"In that case, Blair's fine."
Simon studied Joel's impassive face, reading the anger lurking beneath the surface. "I'm sure I deserved that. I do want to know what's happening with Blair, and with Jim, but that's not actually why I came. I've done a lot of thinking since our conversation." He looked away, struggling with his pride. "I had lunch with Henri a couple of days ago. If anything, his assessment was -"
"Pointed?"
Simon snorted ruefully. "Yeah, pointed. I even called Rafe and Megan. I screwed up, Joel. I've had to admit some very uncomfortable truths to myself. One version is that at the time, I knew I was up for the Deputy Chief position. I didn't want another Sandburg-Ellison snafu to spoil my shot. I was a lot more concerned with keeping Ellison up and running, along with his solve rate, than I was with the long-term good of my unit."
"Blair says we all see things through different lenses."
"I'd classify that as highly charitable. I shortchanged Sandburg for a quick fix, and the end results will be my everlasting shame."
"You don't owe me an explanation, Simon." They sat in silence for a few moments. Joel's expression softened into a question. "You said that was one version. Are there others?"
"Oh, yeah." Simon looked at the ceiling as if searching for guidance. "Multiple versions, as a matter of fact. The one I like the least is where I admit that I'm not as perceptive as I thought, and my vaunted leadership abilities are a sham. Joel, I have to believe in myself, or I can't be responsible for the men and women I command. I'm not sure I can do my job anymore."
"I can relate to the feeling," Joel said softly. He hadn't forgotten the soul-searching agony he'd gone through during his own career. "Are you thinking of resigning?"
"You're a smart man, Joel. Got it in one."
****
Blair checked his watch for the time. Satisfied, he knocked on the back door of the physician's clinic. Dalal ushered him in, clearly bursting with nervous energy. The previously neat office was littered with printouts, textbooks and journals.
Blair managed a slight smile, recognizing a kindred spirit. "Been doing a little reading, Doc?"
Dalal rolled his eyes, but was clearly energized by the project. "I could strangle you for opening this can of worms on me. Problem is, the more I investigate, the more I believe it." He rounded the imposing desk and selected a printout from the sea of paper. "I wasn't in Cascade when you had your infamous press conference. What was all that about?"
Blair forced himself not to react to that very hurtful memory. "Jim was being harassed and he couldn't do his job. He's a very private person. He blamed me for allowing the information to get out." Blair scrubbed his face with his hands. "He wasn't entirely wrong. I didn't have a lot of options. I tried to fix it the only way I thought I could."
"And he agreed to that?" Dalal asked.
"Let's just say I didn't ask him."
"Sort of like right now," Dalal said succinctly. Blair nodded. "But Banks must know." Blair nodded again. He shifted uneasily under Dalal's scrutiny, but added nothing else.
Dalal seemed to come to a decision. "Okay. Here's how I see it. I'm watching this guy die by inches. The safe route is to wring my hands, intercede medically with life support and let it happen. Protects my career, but it makes me feel like a murderer. I want you to use what you know. I'll give you the medical cover, but you help me come up with a treatment plan. Are you in?"
Blair's hands tightened around the arms of his chair. "I hope someone's lighting a candle for us somewhere. I know it's a huge risk for you. I - we - need to talk to the staff at the care center."
"I like that idea." He flipped open an appointment book on his desk. "How about ten tomorrow morning? Can you make it?"
Blair shook his head. "How about tonight? You drive. I'll explain on the way."
****
Blair quietly padded down the darkened corridor of Rainier Rehab and Care. At his request, Dr. Dalal was allowing him to take the lead. Blair hoped the orderly on Jim's wing would be more forthcoming without a doctor looming over his shoulder. Blair Sandburg, as a solo, third party, would be a lot less threatening. He skipped the nurse's station, flashing the ID that had been arranged for him. At the far end of the hall, he noticed a blurred figure, silently pushing a cart. "Carl? Carl Saunders?"
"Yeah, that's me." The figure straightened. He was taller than Blair, and spoke in hushed tones, suitable for someone who worked the dark reaches of the night.
"My name's Blair. The nurses are going to take your calls for a few minutes. I'd like to talk to you about one of the patients." Blair gestured toward Jim's room. "I have some ID and paperwork from Dr. Dalal to allow you to talk to me, but I'm not a doctor. I'm not here to get you in trouble or anything."
Saunders seemed to stare in his direction. Blair wondered absently if years on the night shift had improved his ability to see. "Yeah. Okay," Saunders said. "It still raining outside?"
"Not a few minutes ago."
"Then follow me." Blair followed as they slipped through a series of doors and emerged onto an isolated veranda. Saunders flipped a switch and series of downward facing fixtures illuminated the area in a ghostly half light. "During the day, they use this place when a patient needs a little solitude. No one comes in here at night except for me. So you want to talk about Mr. Ellison." He shrugged. "I call him Mr. Jim. Ellison is too many syllables for night work."
"Actually, I want you to talk about him."
Saunders shook his head. "The nurses can tell you. They have charts and machines and rules. Got lots of information, those nurses."
For a moment, Blair thought back to an afternoon long ago. Sitting on a dirt floor, deep in the jungle, hoping and praying a village elder would trust him enough to talk, really talk. This was no different. "Carl, I don't need what it says on the charts. You care for him. Maybe bathe him, or untangle him from the blankets. The nurses say you have a special way with the patients."
Saunders thought for a moment. "He's a long way away, that one. Walking a hard road in a distant land." Blair nodded. "In the night, he watches. Doesn't want to. It's like at night, he has to come up to breathe. "
Blair could hardly breathe. This was exactly what he needed. "The rest of the staff say he doesn't ever respond."
"Yeah, but they're wrong. They bustle in and call his name, like he's going to sit up and chat. Stupid. Just makes him run away faster. Sometimes when I come in, he opens his eyes. We don't talk. I sit watching him, and he watches me. Then he'll turn away. I just interrupt his journey."
Blair thought frantically, trying to decipher that. It was as bad as trying to communicate when you only knew a few simple words, but what you want to know is really complicated. He lost track of time, and realized Saunders had stood, ready to leave.
"Do you know about the cats?" Saunders asked.
"The cats?" Blair asked, incredulous. His mind was racing. How could this man know about Jim's spirit animal?
"The facility has cats. Usually they stay in the other wings, with the elderly people. I don't work down there very often. The patients, even the confused ones, really like those cats."
"Well, yeah. Yeah, I've heard of that."
"When a resident is going to pass, you'll find one of those cats, snuggled up on their beds. They seem to know, like they need to be there."
Blair nodded, unable to speak. He didn't like the way this conversation seemed to be going.
"Those cats, at night. Well, lately, they spend a lot of time with your friend."
Blair was about to protest that he hadn't said Jim was his friend, but Saunders was already gone.
****
He made the drive back to Joel's in a daze. The rain had started again, and the slap of the wipers beat time to his scattered thoughts. Half a world away, in the Chilean sunshine, he'd been reluctant, even scared. He'd just realized that all those emotions were centered on his own wellbeing. Now that he'd widened the circle, actually seen Jim, things had shifted monumentally.
He was terrified.
He turned the key in Joel's front door and realized that it was already open. As quietly as possible, he stepped into the foyer. Joel was just down the hall, motioning him to join him.
Blair stopped dead at the doorway of Joel's study. Simon Banks, one of the people he least wanted to see, stood up in greeting.
"Hello, Captain. Joel, if you'll excuse me, I'll just head on to bed." Blair thought his voice sounded like crystal on the verge of shattering.
"Jim's doctor already called, Sandburg," Banks said. "If you're willing, I'd be grateful to hear it from you."
"I guess you have to sign off on it, don't you?" Blair said, unable to keep the hostility out of his voice.
"Please, Sandburg. Just sit down and explain it."
Blair looked at Joel, who nodded solemnly. "Okay, Simon. You've done your best, and I haven't earned the right to be a total shit where this is concerned. I think Jim, for lack of a better explanation, has shut down."
"He told me years ago his senses were gone," Simon said sharply. "That was right after you left. How is this different from where he already was?"
Blair flinched at Simon's contentious tone. This was so hard. "There's a gap between what Jim understood and what was actually happening. Jim thought he was turning his senses 'off' so that he wouldn't be a sentinel anymore. In the short term, maybe he was right. I think what he actually managed was to turn them down so low they seemed normal. The senses were 'off', at least in his frame of reference." The other two men gave him blank looks. Blair tried again. "Imagine the dial on the radio. Jim was trying to maintain volume at 'low' by sheer will, and to him that meant 'off'', but it wasn't. He operated in a city, a very high stress environment, loaded with sensory input. Over time, it took too much energy, and whatever mechanism he was using to maintain those artificially low levels quit working. Dalal thinks it has something to do with brain chemistry and biofeedback, ala Ellison."
"Let me guess," said Joel. "Really turning them 'off', at this point, means he doesn't hear, see, or feel anything."
Blair nodded. "Exactly, and we call that catatonic. But his subconscious fights back to the top when it seems safe. Translation being, at night he surfaces, and then wills himself back down. He thinks it's hopeless."
"And you know this because?" Simon asked.
"That's a fair question. Because it makes sense, and because the night staff, one guy in particular, confirm it. Each time he comes up a little bit less and stays down a little bit longer, just like a drowning man."
"And this is why Dalal will take him off all the meds? Even the food and water? We're just going to let him die?"
"He's dying now, Simon. No, we're going to give him a chance to choose to come back. I know it sounds crazy. Do you remember Incacha?"
"The Chopec man who died at Jim's loft?" Simon growled. "I won't forget that mess anytime soon."
"Incacha understood this sentinel thing in a different cultural context, and probably understood it better than I ever will. He maintained that Jim would be a sentinel as long as he chose to be one. I'm convinced that forcing or tricking Jim would be counterproductive. He has to choose." He looked at Simon with anguish in his eyes. "It's a huge risk. If you can't live with the idea that Jim might not choose to come back, don't go any farther with this. Call Dalal and withdraw your permission."
Simon shook his head violently. "I don't believe it. This is your plan? Assisted suicide?"
"I can't argue with you anymore, Simon, about anything," Blair said, overwhelmed with encroaching despair. "You called me, remember? I'm assuming you'll follow my recommendation. Tomorrow night we'll move him back to his own territory, to the safest place we can create. It will take most of the day to prepare the loft." Blair stood up. "First thing tomorrow, I'm going to be at the loft, getting ready. You can call Joel if you change your mind between now and tomorrow morning." He shut the door softly behind him as he left.
The two men stared at each other. "He's right, Simon. You should never have brought him here if you didn't want to listen to him."
"Oh my God," Simon whispered. "I have to be the one to decide."
****
Simon didn't call.
Blair threw open the doors to the balcony. It was a cool, overcast morning, typical for late spring in Cascade. His first sweep through the loft was to bag every last scrap of trash or paper into the garbage. As he went, he left every window open. He could keep his sweatshirt on if he got cold.
He set the washing machine to work. On his next pass through the loft, he began to remove anything extraneous that might hold dust or odors. He packed those into boxes. To his surprise, Joel arrived with Henri Brown in tow, along with items he'd purchased from a lengthy list Blair had entrusted to him.
Henri gave Blair an enthusiastic hug. "Hey, Hairboy. Good to see you, man. What happened to your head?"
"Simplifying life, my man. You're a sight for sore eyes, H."
Henri surveyed the mountain of boxes. "Well, if you're the brains of this outfit, I'm the brawn. This stuff going downstairs?" He set about carrying things down to Jim's storage area in the basement.
Blair put Joel to work in the kitchen, particularly the fridge. With that work in progress, he tackled the bathroom. After the first thorough scrubbing, he set out candles scented with sandalwood. Jim had always liked that scent. He'd have plenty of time to air the loft out later. By two o'clock, the place was beginning to look like a human habitation. They broke for lunch, and went back at it, scrubbing walls and floors with a concoction of natural ingredients Blair had come up with.
By six, Blair was alone, watching a sliver of sun burn its way into the harbor. Joel had been the last to leave. Blair was nearly overwhelmed when they parted. Joel Taggart had returned every kindness tenfold. His simple pronouncement that he would be praying through the night touched Blair beyond measure.
He made a circuit of the loft, closed the windows and set the temperature at a level Jim would probably find comfortable. It took another hour to fine-tune all the other preparations. He took a shower, and dressed in fresh clothes. He pulled on thick wool socks instead of shoes. He wanted to be as quiet as possible when Jim came home. He trusted Dalal to manage the transfer of Jim to the loft. His job was to be rested and ready for Jim's arrival. His final act was to light candles and begin to meditate. Blair closed his eyes.
He wanted to be calm and peaceful. Find his center. At some point, against his will, his thoughts wandered to Incacha, regretting there hadn't been time to learn more from the shaman who had such faith in Enqueri.He was in the blue jungle. This wasn't a place he wanted to go. He willed himself to direct nothing, but to accept whatever preparation was offered. The wolf appeared, sometimes as a staring apparition, sometimes melded into his own body. He wandered alone.
And he was afraid. So very afraid.
****
The ambulance rocked gently, taking an obscure route to 852 Prospect, chosen for minimal traffic and delay. Robert Dalal took his patient's wrist and checked the pulse. So far, Ellison showed no unusual agitation or distress.
I must be out of my mind.
The ambulance slowed, and came to a stop. When they exited, Sandburg was waiting at the doorway, ready to usher Jim Ellison back to his home. The transfer went smoothly, although he was a bit surprised that Sandburg expected the two of them to carry Ellison up to his bed, rather than have the ambulance crew take care of it. Blair had mumbled something about preserving the territory. At that point it seemed useless to argue.
They settled Ellison on the bed. Sandburg had been meticulous in his preparations. Dalal made note of the time, and left.
****
Simon Banks chose to wait out the night before his fireplace, watching the flames fade into glowing coals. He was tired, but made no effort to sleep. He spent the time with his memories, glimpses of Jim and Blair in happier times, and in the depths. How much of this whole mess was his fault?
He started to call Daryl, and then hung up the phone. Explanations could wait. Earlier in the evening, he'd typed his resignation. It sat on the table before him, waiting for his decision and, ultimately, his signature.
****
Blair knelt by the bed, and stroked the limp hand with the lightest touch he could manage. There was nothing he could say. He wasn't going to drag Jim back into the land of the living. He could open the door. Just as it had been his choice to return and be by Jim's side, it would be Jim's choice to join him.
If not, then he would stand sentinel, wishing his friend safe passage to the other side.
****
Oh thank you. It's over. Finally.He was almost floating. The hospital was gone, thank God. He hadn't seen the jungle, or the panther, for a long time.
It felt good. He could stay here.
The view faded. It was dark. He took a breath. It was fresh and clean. He opened his eyes, this time eager to see what lay beyond.
A familiar ceiling rose above him, stars twinkling from beyond the skylight. Home? He turned his head.
Blair?
****
Jim had turned. He heard the faint rustle on the sheets. Fighting down panic, Blair stayed where he was, a few feet away from Jim, back against the wall, watching and waiting. He had no sense of time. It was not important.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Watch.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Watch.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Watch.
****
Dawn had broken. Blair gradually began to see more than velvet black and shadows. Jim's eyes were still open. Blair studied the eyes, the planes of Jim's face. Jim's hair had grown while he was in the hospital, and it fell across his forehead. His face was relaxed, but Blair could see the gaunt look of his cheeks and pain-etched creases around his eyes. He ached to call out to Jim, but still he waited. It had to be Jim's choice. Jim's choice.
Jim's eyes closed. Blair's soul sank. It was done. Tears slid from his eyes as he tried to bring himself to the point of saying goodbye.
"Chief? Is that really you?"
That voice. Oh God, it stole his ability to speak. His mouth opened but nothing came out.
"Blair?"
He crawled the few feet, his body aching from the hours of stillness. "Yeah, Jim, it's me."
Jim reached toward him. Blair cradled Jim's hand in his own and kissed the palm.
****
On the first day, Jim drank tea and ate the most delicious chocolate tapioca pudding he'd ever tasted. With the skin.
On the second day, he soaked in the tub. Ate eggs for breakfast. Sat on the balcony. He needed sunglasses, but still, he made it outside.
On the third day, Blair drove him to a deserted stretch of beach and he sat the afternoon, watching the waves. Sandburg hovered off in the distance, poking in tide pools and dancing with the waves as they washed in. At the end of the day, he presented Jim with his lone trophy - a perfect sand dollar, a rarity on these wild northern beaches.
On the fourth day, Blair produced two books of the same title, one for each of them. Without explanation, he settled to read. Jim took his cue and did the same. South Africa after apartheid seemed a long way away, but forgiveness and reconciliation seemed closer to home. Too close. Sandburg, predictably, finished first and went for a walk. Jim read far into the night.
On the fifth day, it was time to talk. Both promised not to walk out, and the balcony was designated as the time out area.
In retrospect, Jim spent a lot of time on the balcony, cooling down before they could start again. Blair went on the balcony less often. A few times, they both were out there, glaring at each other, staking out territory in righteous anger. Blair explained his plans to live and work in Seattle.
Jim spent a long time on the balcony after that revelation.
And finally, they wound down, tired and hungry, talked out and exhausted. Jim's head ached. Blair's shoulders were slumped, his head down. Without any conscious thought that he could later identify, Jim broke the anguished silence.
"I make really good spaghetti," he said quietly.
Blair met his gaze. "I make really good salads."
"I tasted one of your algae shakes once. It wasn't that bad. I guess."
"When I have TV around, I turn on Sports Center. I have no idea why."
"I threw my clothes on the floor when you were gone. Once or twice." That admission earned him a smile from Blair's pale, drawn face.
"I actually clean the bathroom before it becomes a biological specimen."
The next words stuck in Jim's throat, but they had to be said. "My mom - left. Dad - there was no trust. It was always about the twist at the end. No matter what, the rules would always change. I spent all this time waiting for the next act of betrayal, whether it made sense or not. He's been gone two years and I'm still letting him call every decision in my life."
Blair nodded slowly. "Same here. Naomi and her 'detach with love', but not much about consequence and responsibility. I was careless, Jim. Careless with my academic career, careless with the sentinel stuff. Careless with you. Not malicious, careless. It's taken me a long time to admit that. That I'm ready - I need - to be accountable."
"Chief, I don't think I'm mad anymore."
"I don't think I'm mad anymore either."
For a long time, they didn't need to talk. Through some nonverbal communication neither fully understood, they made spaghetti and a salad, and finished the meal with ice cream. They sat on the balcony for awhile, and Jim excused himself. Blair stayed on the balcony. He figured Jim needed some time to himself, maybe a shower or a nap. Feeling totally wrung out, but strangely at peace, leaned his head back and dozed.
He awakened to a nudge to his shoulder. Jim was barefoot, in jeans and a cotton button down. The shirt looked too big, a consequence of all the weight Jim had lost. He joined Blair, cross-legged and facing out toward the water.
"Gonna get too cold for us to stay out here."
"Yeah. Hey, you made it into jeans. Congrats."
"Small wonders." Blair noticed Jim had a small leather-bound book in his hands. "I know you need to get to Seattle. I want you to go to Seattle. I was just wondering if you could help me with something first."
The odd detachment in Jim's voice made Blair uncomfortable. "You okay?"
"Actually, I'm really good." He traced the edge of the leather cover absently. "Somehow, we both seem to have paid attention to each other. I know I finally heard you about a lot of things after you were gone. Didn't handle it very well, but I heard them." He stopped fidgeting and looked at Blair. "I was wondering if - well, if you could take this and write it for me. In the first person." He extended the book to with shaky hands.
"What is it?" Blair asked as he hesitantly opened the cover. The pages were filled with Jim's handwriting. Some pages were tightly packed with neat even letters, some pages half-empty with nearly illegible scrawls.
"It's my life, what's happened to me. I started the day after you left and kept it in a floor safe." Jim stared off into the night. "It's kind of a mess. Even when I was holding it together at work, I was in really bad shape for a lot of it. Anyway, I want you to write it. Put it together with what you already have and write a - I guess they'd call it a narrative."
Blair's mouth hung open, overwhelmed by the enormity of the statement he'd just heard. "Jim - Jim - I can't do that."
Jim looked a little panicky. "Oh. You don't understand. I want you to. I need it," he said emphatically.
"For what?"
"So other people can know," Jim said simply.
Blair shook his head. "For other people..."
"Yeah. For them to read. So I don't have to explain it again and again. When I start over."
"You can't mean that," Blair finally stammered.
"You don't get it, do you, Chief?" Jim said gently. "I've been to hell and back, and I'm not going to live in the shadows again." He smiled vaguely. "I think it's a pretty good story. Could you maybe - I don't know - start tonight?"
****
Steven Ellison was in his LA office when the messenger service delivered. Puzzled, he signed for the box and retreated to his office. Inside was a bound document, and two sealed notes, one reading 'Before', the other 'After'. He opened the seal on 'Before' and read:
Hey, Stevie. Been awhile.Last time, at Dad's funeral, I said a lot of things that I meant at the time, but I wish I hadn't said. Before you pitch this in the trash, please read it. I'd be really grateful. You're getting the first copy, because I owe you the most.
Your brother, Jimmy
Steven swore, slamming everything down on the surface of his desk. How dare his brother! God damn him! Whatever crap Jim was trying to pull this time, he wanted to tear it apart with his bare hands. He stomped to the window, breathing heavily, trying to contain his rage. Do this, do that, read now. He wasn't some latter day Alice in Wonderland. No way. He'd had enough of Jim's aloof superiority to last a lifetime.
In the end, though, he was curious. He opened the book carelessly to a middle page and skimmed a few paragraphs. Puzzled, he turned a few more pages, then went hurriedly to the beginning. There was no title, or table of contents. The words spilled over each other in a torrent.
The offices were deserted and silent when he finished. He saw vignettes of his childhood; Jimmy telling him what was for dinner from down the block, or telling Sally where the mouse lived in the kitchen. Saw their father shaking Jim by the shoulders, telling him not to be a freak. Remembered how Jim stood by him when he'd been framed during the racetrack project. Jim, always his little brother's protector until Steven substituted his father's approval for his brother's love. Dad, did you really know? And if you knew all along, how could you have screwed up so badly? How could I have screwed up so badly?
Thoroughly shaken, he opened the second note.
Hey, Bro.I hope you read it. Sandburg did it for me, just the way I told it to him, and I sent him on his way to Seattle. Words are his medium, not mine.
You know now that he fell on his sword for me, and like a coward, I let him. Letting other people know scared me more than anything. Not long ago I would have laid that at Dad's feet, but it was mine. All mine.
This shit tore Blair's life apart and damn near killed me. I have some ideas, but I need some help, specifically, help from you. I don't deserve it, but it would mean a lot to me if you would be part of this.
I'm hoping that since you've made the jump to LA, your connections will be better than mine. Consider yourself co-opted to black ops on the business side. I think we need to start with a really good intellectual property lawyer.
Call me if you're in; the number's at the bottom.
Jim
Steven couldn't make the call quickly enough.
****
George McHugh, chief legal counsel for Berkshire Publishing, settled gratefully into the comfortable booth at his favorite luncheon restaurant. After a particularly hectic morning, it was good to get out of the office. He was a bit early, so he ordered an excellent merlot and munched on a breadstick. Although the call had come out of the blue, he was happy to rearrange his schedule for lunch with Tony Klausner. The happy accident of his luncheon companion couldn't be better. Based in LA, Tony had, over the years, been both collaborator and opposition. Klausner was flamboyant and 'West Coast' to McHugh's New York button down and pinstripe. Tony was also smart, resourceful and outrageously funny when he wasn't arguing a case. They'd formed a fast friendship over the years.
He spotted Klausner as he came in the door, chatting up the maître d', sporting his trademark California tan and a bright orange tie. He had another man in tow, which was - unusual. Tony hadn't mentioned including a third.
McHugh attempted to size up the unknown as the two men made their way across the dining room; relatively tall, graceful carriage, penetrating blue eyes, impeccably tailored gray suit. Moved like an athlete. Perhaps a new associate? He cut his musings short as greetings were made all around. The newcomer had a firm handshake and introduced himself simply as Jim.
Tony was happy to accept a glass of wine, but their guest declined. McHugh idly noticed Jim ordered a very simple meal of clear soup, broiled fish and vegetables. They were relaxing with coffee and dessert before Klausner shifted gears and came to the point.
"George, great meal, but you're too sharp to think this is casual," said Tony.
"Then we should be at the office," McHugh said, not hiding his irritation. An ambush really wasn't Tony's style. The tactic wasn't in keeping with their friendship.
"Actually, this is a rather unorthodox situation, and we're in exactly the right place. I need to provide some background." Klausner glanced at Jim, who nodded slightly. "Several years ago you had a flap with one of your editors, Sid Graham. Kind of embarrassing for the firm, making a big announcement, lots of publicity, and then a rather spectacular retraction."
"And as you well know, Sid Graham is no longer with us," McHugh said coldly. "I couldn't fire him fast enough. It could have been a legal nightmare."
"As you say, I'm well aware. Had a nice chat with Sid a couple of weeks ago. Awful how people retain that kind of bitterness over the years."
That statement was a bit of a shock, but McHugh was more intrigued by the effect on their nearly silent luncheon companion. Jim, if that was really his name, stiffened. There was anger lurking behind those eyes. First things first, however. "What's this all about, Tony?" McHugh said.
"As you said, the lawsuit could and should have been a nightmare. If the college kid - Blair Sandburg if you recall - had filed suit, he would have won. Practically a slam dunk, in my opinion. You fired Sid with cause. The payout would have been substantial."
The whole topic was unsettling in the extreme. "Since you're well informed, you know Sandburg confessed the whole thing was fraudulent," McHugh said quickly. He noted another minute, but definite, reaction from Jim. Somehow, this all linked together, and he needed to figure it out quickly to keep the situation under control.
"Ah, yes. And since we're very good at our jobs, we both know that potential fraud wasn't really the point, at least legally. His work was still released without permission." Klausner sipped his coffee, choosing his moment. "But you know how it goes. Lawsuits take a lot of time and money. Water down the drain if you have a lousy case. Sometimes, that's not really what the plaintiff has in mind. We have another alternative to suggest."
"All right. I'm listening. We'll have more coffee." He motioned to their waiter. "Or should I have a scotch?"
"I think in the end, you'll want champagne." Klausner smiled, which gave McHugh more trepidation. It was the smile of a shark arriving for the main course. "You see, there really is a sentinel. It was all true. And you know, Graham was correct about one thing; Sandburg really can write. What Graham wanted to release was Sandburg's dissertation. It should have been dry, academic stuff. Even the good stuff was buried under charts and graphs, the scientific evidence of little interest to the general public. Cut him loose from the formal style of academic work, and his prose is breathtaking." Tony placed a manuscript on the table. "Instead of a lawsuit, how would you like to publish the real story? The true one, with a respected team of physicians, including a neurologist, to back up every word that's on the page. It's a great deal, a classic win- win. We just have a few special conditions to iron out."
McHugh considered his choices, one of which was to leave immediately.
Klausner leaned toward him. "You turn it down, we take it to someone else. It'll be a best seller, my friend. And when someone else is busy collecting all those profits and royalties, you'll still be dealing with that pesky lawsuit. Our boy Sid gave us the nails for the coffin. You'll lose, and I won't have any trouble selling the tragedy Berkshire publishing left in their wake. I give you my word on that."
McHugh looked narrowly at the third man sharing their table. "You're the sentinel."
"I am. This is no joke. Getting this published is just the first of several dominos."
"Okay. Talk to me."
****
"Chancellor Edwards, we have some correspondence that's marked 'Personal and Confidential'. Where would you like me to leave it?"
Edwards looked up from the fundraising letters she was signing. "Cynthia, I thought I made it clear I didn't want to be disturbed."
"Yes, ma'am. I'm actually ready to leave for the evening, and I didn't want to leave this in the outer office."
"Fine," Edwards said sharply. "Just leave it here on the desk." She went back to signing the letters, aggravated that her secretary couldn't follow the simplest of instructions. She ignored the fat padded envelope on the corner of her desk.
The next morning, Cynthia was back at her desk, interrupting her train of thought. Edwards frowned. She seriously needed to fire that young woman.
"Excuse me, Chancellor, you have a Mr. Anthony Klausner here to see you. He has an appointment."
Edwards huffed in annoyance. "Oh, all right. But Cynthia, I'm cutting this short. I want you back in here in exactly five minutes. Invent some sort of emergency that I need to attend to immediately."
The beleaguered Cynthia retreated, and three men were ushered in. Edwards looked up too late to intervene before they were seated. One of the three was easily recognizable. "Detective Ellison, you're not welcome here," she said coldly. "Please leave at once."
Ellison said nothing. Instead he motioned toward the padded envelope, which still sat on the corner of her desk, unopened. The man seated to his right nodded.
"Chancellor, I'm Tony Klausner." He handed his card. He smiled as Edwards processed the information, including the name of his firm. Any apprehension she felt would be prudent, and well-deserved.
"I see," Edwards said. "I suppose I should have the University's counsel present."
"Perhaps you should."
His tone chilled her. Klausner picked up the envelope and opened it using the letter opener from her own desk. The nerve!
"An administrator of your status really should read your communications in a timely manner," Klausner said. "Since you didn't, I'll give you the highlights. You know Detective Ellison. Our third here is Joel Taggart, Captain, Cascade PD, retired." He ignored her protests. "When you dismissed Blair Sandburg on the cusp of completing his doctoral studies, you violated multiple areas of due process by not following your own policies. We'll leave the details for now. As your counsel will tell you, you're in a poor defensive position. The settlement from a lawsuit would be substantial."
Edwards was on her feet. "Sandburg was a fraud. That's the end of it!"
"Sit down, lady," Ellison growled. "And take a breath mint. You should have brushed better after that bacon this morning. Oh, and that sweet young woman, Cynthia? Let her know you won't be needing that five-minute emergency you asked her for. We're tsunami, fire and plague combined, and you won't be finished in any five minutes."
In shock, Edwards sat down with a thump.
Klausner grinned wolfishly. "How appropriate. As Detective Ellison has so aptly demonstrated with that little recitation, sentinels are very, very real. He could demonstrate the other senses, but let's move on. Please pay attention, Chancellor. A narrative version of Sandburg's dissertation, combined with other material, is debuting nationally within the month." He motioned to the material he had fanned out on her desk. "You'll find these interesting reading, including substantial documentation that will clearly show Sandburg was no fraud."
"You can't be serious."
"Berkshire Publishing saw the same material and took us very seriously. Rather than risk a suit, they will be backing the release with a nationwide promotional campaign."
"The check wasn't bad either," Ellison said. Edwards didn't miss the smug satisfaction in the man's voice.
"Berkshire was willing to delay long enough for us to have this conversation. In fact, they view the filing of a lawsuit against Rainier - and you personally - as a very useful piece of publicity. I'm afraid you make a spectacular villainess, Chancellor."
"What do you want?" Edwards said.
Klausner smiled. "How astute of you to ask. You do have a choice. You can avoid the lawsuit very simply. Reinstate Sandburg and give him the opportunity to defend with his original committee. Grease the bureaucratic wheels and have everything complete before the publishing date, approximately three weeks from now."
"That's virtually extortion. For the sake of argument, the other choice?"
"You can answer the suit in court, and we'll use the book to amplify the volume. It won't be the kind of scrutiny you want for the University, not to mention the price tag."
"It won't just be the university," Ellison growled. "I will personally guarantee that no scrap of your spiteful demagoguery will go unexposed. You'll be a liability, and even your fat-cat donors won't save you. Not much loyalty with that crowd. Within the year you won't be sitting in a nice cushy office bullying the underlings. You've already had a small demonstration from me. What I know, and how I know it, ought to scare the hell out of you." Edwards paled under his determined gaze.
"We'll need an answer by close of business," Klausner said crisply. "Unless, of course, you'd like to start making some of those calls right now.
****
God, Reston hated quarterly report time.
Drake Hendricks, who'd graciously come in to provide some extra manpower, looked expectantly in his direction. Since the Ellison fiasco, Reston had come to rely on his quiet, steady detective more and more. "These go in the overtime section, Drake."
"Got it." He gave the office paper punch a determined whack.
Despite the huge 'BUSY - COME BACK LATER' sign, there was a knock at the door. The last thing Reston needed was another interruption. He didn't look up. "Unless the place is on fire, come back later!" he bellowed.
"Sorry, Captain. Not quite as bad as all that."
Reston's head snapped up. "Ellison?"
"Morning, sir. Sorry to interrupt. I won't be long. Hey, Drake. Good to see you." When neither man responded, Ellison gestured toward the chair facing Reston's desk. "May I sit?"
"Uhm...sure." Reston struggled to regain his composure, and his manners. When Drake stiffened with dislike he motioned his detective to stay put. Right now, he'd rather have a witness for this unexpected visit. "Of course, Ellison, sit down. When did you get out of the hospital?" Reston did a quick calculation. It had been at least five months since he'd called in Ellison's badge and gun, and nearly that long since he'd seen him in person. Ellison looked thin, but steady on his feet and clear-eyed. He was dressed casually, with a messenger bag slung over his shoulder. Quite a change from the last time he'd seen him, flailing and screaming in a room at Cascade General.
"I've been home for awhile. I owe you, and probably the whole unit, an apology, but I promised to keep this short." Ellison handed an envelope across the desk. "No need to open it now, but it's my official resignation letter. The required paperwork is being processed."
Reston placed the envelope in front of him. This was too good to be true. That thought was replaced with an ample measure of guilt. "You still have a couple months left on your leave. Are you sure this is what you want to do?"
"Captain, I'm very sure. Really, sir, it's time for me to move on from law enforcement." A small grin lit up his face, the first time Reston could actually remember seeing Jim Ellison smile. "Believe me, this is actually going to make things a lot simpler for everyone."
He noticed Harrison shifting uncomfortably in his seat and start to excuse himself from the room. "Relax, Drake. I'm sure you're going to catch a little of this because you were my last partner, so it's best to be here. Besides, I have something for you." Ellison rooted around in his messenger bag, and held out a University of Washington ball cap. "I heard your son signed his letter of intent. You must be really proud of him. I figured you could use this when you go south to watch him play."
Drake sat, dumbfounded. When had the jerk he so clearly remembered morphed into a decent human being? He accepted with mumbled thanks.
Reston sympathized with his detective. He needed to take the lead here, despite his own sentiments about his soon-to-be former detective. "I'm afraid I'm a bit confused, Ellison. This is pretty sudden. Do you have plans?" He felt both relieved and sick at heart. He should have done better by this man.
"Yeah, I do, but they're not going to make a lot of sense without some background. Simon - I mean the Deputy Chief - said he'd stop by later today and fill in the gaps. I hope you'll accept this as an extended apology." After another search in the bag, he handed a hard-cover book to Reston. "Hasn't hit the shelves yet, but you guys get an advance copy. At least you get advanced warning. Like I said, Simon will fill in some of the blanks."
Reston opened the cover and read a few passages. "Not the superman shit! You're taking up fiction writing?"
Ellison gave them a sly smile. "You know what they say; fact is stranger than fiction. The short version is that when I got my head on straight, the publisher that was responsible for the first fiasco set things to rights rather than face litigation."
Reston checked the cover again. "And Sandburg wrote this? About you?"
"Well, yeah, but of course, it's not his dissertation. Actually, that was kind of fun. Rainier screwed him over big time. After the publisher caved, it was easy to put Rainier in a vise. He actually defended yesterday." Ellison broke into a giant grin. "He's officially Dr. Sandburg now."
Reston shook his head. It was a bit much all at once. Drake managed to ask the next obvious question. "So what's Sandburg doing?"
"Well, since he helped me out, he's been in Seattle, working for the Gates Foundation on malaria. Blair's forte has always been making connections between people who don't really want to talk to each other. Cultural sensitivity and all that. This job is perfect for him, really. He didn't need a PhD to do it, but they don't mind the extra credentials."
"But you have plans?" Reston asked. "You didn't mention what you were going to do."
"Part of the time, I'll work with Sandburg. Turns out a guy like me, who can talk dirty to the local military commander, but still knows his way around indigenous people, is kind of handy to have around. Those NGO people are all academics, but they're great in an egg-heady kind of way. The rest of the time, I'm going to be doing long-term search and rescue work, based out of Seattle. The Gates Foundation coordinates with International Rescue and a bunch of alphabet soup organizations I can't keep track of. Anyway, I guess people stuck at the bottom of a mine shaft or buried under rubble don't care if you have weird abilities. The plan is they'll just call and send me whenever and wherever I'm needed. I can be myself without any messy questions about due process or search warrants." Ellison gave him a brilliant smile. "I feel really good about that."
"Oh my God." Drake had finally found his voice. "That last day, when you charged the building. You heard something, didn't you?"
Ellison's smile dimmed a bit. "Yeah. Let's just say based on what I heard, I couldn't wait. I realize now what a shitty position I was putting you in most of the time. I really am sorry. You were a much better partner than I deserved."
Drake's consternation was transparent. "The headaches. The food you couldn't eat. The complaints about radios and noises and smells - it was all legit. All the time I thought you were just being a finicky jerk," Drake stammered. "You couldn't tell me, could you? You couldn't tell anyone."
Ellison nodded slowly, and then the smile reappeared, just as bright. "Like I said, the Search and Rescue will be a relief. I can do my thing, and no one's going to grill me about whether I followed the rules of evidence."
Reston felt sincere regret that this was a man he hadn't known. "Then Godspeed, Detective. Will you be around when all this stuff comes out?"
Jim stood up, offering his hand to both men. He looked like a man with a new lease on life. "Simon might have to do a few talk shows, but he's okay with that. As far as I'm concerned, a camera is all the more reason to be out of the country. With any luck, I'll be in a canoe with Sandburg somewhere on the Amazon."
And he was gone.
The two men stared at each other in stunned silence. Reston stabbed at his intercom. "Maggie, call the Chief's office and tell them my reports won't be in until tomorrow. Then contact Simon Banks' office and tell him Drake Harrison and I will be at the Owl and Thistle on Pine. If he's not there within the hour, I won't be responsible." He turned off his computer with a flourish. "Get your coat, Drake. We both need a drink, and we have a book to read."
****
Epilogue
Simon Banks had to dig through the piles of boxes to find the phone. He caught it just before the call went to voicemail, a maze he hadn't yet deciphered. "Washington State Patrol, ISB Office. Assistant Chief Banks speaking."
"Hey there, Dad. Whoo hoo. Investigative Services Bureau sounds impressive even by acronym. My Washington state taxpayer dollars at work. Still running the office by yourself?"
"Daryl! Good to hear from you." Simon's face broke into a wide grin. One of the downsides of moving to Olympia was to have his son in a different city. "No, it's just after hours. Everyone else has gone home."
"Is your office still a wreck? Still buried in boxes?"
Simon laughed. "There may be a desk here, but I'm not sure. What does that tell you? I spent the day meeting my investigative people and coordinating with Homeland Security. They're a great staff, but it was a long day."
"Hey, you're the new kid on the block. Play nice with the other children. How about I come down this weekend and give you a hand?"
"What? You're willing to leave my only grandbaby for that long?"
Daryl chuckled. "Cheryl said it would be a relief. She's having her girlfriends for some baby thing. I'm not considered an asset."
"Then sure, I'd love to have you come. You can check out the new place. The guest room was set up before I did my own bedroom."
"Don't kid me, Dad. You had a crib for your grandchild set up before anything else. I'll come down Friday after work."
"Great!"
"That wasn't the whole reason I called, Dad. Did you see it?"
It was impossible to miss the excitement in Daryl's voice. Truth be told, he felt the same way. "Yeah, I did. Wasn't it amazing?"
"Fantastic. I sent them a note, even though they won't get it right away. Maybe we can see them when they get back to the States. I'd really like that."
"So would I, Daryl. So would I. See you Friday."
"Bye, Dad."
Simon hung up the phone, and picked up his copy of Time from the tower of boxes. Leave it to Ellison to make the cover twice in a lifetime. He'd been waiting with anticipation when the issue hit the newsstand, and read the article three times. The cover photo was the best part. Under the headline, 'American Sentinel', was a picture of Jim, emerging from the remains of a car-bombed building. It was a superb photograph, the kind that wins a Pulitzer Prize for someone, catching the drama of a miraculous rescue. Jim was covered with dust, but his mask was pulled under his chin. He was gently passing an injured toddler down to the waiting arms of an equally dusty Blair Sandburg. The moment was sheer magic.
Simon saw a different miracle. The smiles on the faces of both men were transcendent. Sentinel and Guide, at long last, were exactly where they were supposed to be.
'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free,
'Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be,
And when we find ourselves in the place just right,
'Twill be in the valley of love and delight.
THE END
Excerpt from the Shaker hymn, Simple Gifts, by Joseph Brackett, 1848
If you don't recognize the words, you will probably recognize the melody. You can listen on YouTube: Simple Gifts, by Yo-Yo Ma and Alison Krauss
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